


IN WHICH A DEMON IS SICK

by lalikha



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickness, Zira and Crowley being incompetent at their jobs, can be read as platonic, praying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:27:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23392474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalikha/pseuds/lalikha
Summary: Crowley accidentally prays to Aziraphale.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 33





	IN WHICH A DEMON IS SICK

Crowley felt like death.

Now get this: demons, or any creature of angel stock, really, do _not_ get sick. It is completely and utterly impossible, so why does Crowley currently feel like a boneless vessel of molten magma?

This question cannot currently be answered as the demon’s mind is gradually turning into mush. A partially coherent fraction of his mind unhelpfully supplied that this is quite similar to the human condition of coming down with a fever.

So there Crowley lay, on sleek silk sheets crumpled beneath his clammy hands, lithe form shivering from the non-existent cold, whimpering miserably. Never had he ever felt so helpless. Through his muddled mind, a single name rang clear. Aziraphale.

His teeth chattered as he clasped his hands together and thought out a desperate prayer that collapsed into a mantra of _‘angel, angel, angel’_ over and over.

Surely enough, just as Crowley had unsteadily miracled a third duvet over himself minutes later, a worried angel enters the room.

“Crowley, you-”

The demon was certainly not in a right state. Aziraphale quickly approached Crowley, checking his temperature. The serpentine demon winced at the contact.

“My dear boy, you…” Aziraphale bit his lip. _No, now is not the time._ The angel settled on removing Crowley’s skewed sunglasses off his face to observe him better. “What do you need?”

The demon couldn’t even reply, opting instead for a little whimper he’d had cringed at any other time if it wasn’t for his current condition. “Oh, you poor dear.”

The angel pushed back stray hairs sticking to Crowley's face and smiled.

[Aziraphale very well knew Crowley liked it when he smiled. Why? Well, plenty of times, the demon had mirrored it in his most covert ways. The quirk of a corner of his mouth, the rarely-seen wrinkles around his eyes, and suchlike, not to mention the slight tinge of red blooming on his cheeks.]

"Wh'cha smilin' f'r?" slurred Crowley grumpily.

"You're a lot less bothersome when you're like this," Aziraphale answered in light jest.

"Out. Outta m'flat righ' now," groaned Crowley, burying his face into a pillow.

"Oh, but you prayed… to me. To be here. It is my duty to remain for as long as required."

"Sound like tho' prissy angelssss. Not wi' 'em 'nymore, y'remember?"

At this point Aziraphale is even surprised he could understand Crowley, who, the angel was quite certain, was only partially conscious, given the slurring, the half-closed eyes, and the lack of filter.

Ignoring the question, Aziraphale asked, "Would you mind if I lay down with you?"

"Mrrf," said Crowley, and scooted over a little.

"Well is there anything you need? You appear to… have a fever, dear. Is there anything you want?" Aziraphale sounded diffident.

Aziraphale began playing with Crowley's hair, running his fingers through the coppery strands. The demon meanwhile struggled with a reply.

"Take your time, Crowley. I'm not going anywhere."

The demon affixed his eyes on Aziraphale then, in his sickness-induced sleepy haze, and surely, gradually, relaxed limply.

"You're right," the angel began. "We're on our side now. Funny thing really, how easy it is, don't you think?"

The demon hummed thoughtfully. Or perhaps it's in agreement.

"You'd think you've been following the rules, getting away with anything, hoping someone overlooks, then you realize all your petty little mistakes look like one big mistake. I'd wondered if I'd made a good demon, had I fallen then."

Crowley froze and wrapped his hands around Aziraphale's middle.

"'m rather glad you hadn't fallen, you wonderful bastard. Who'd be there to thwart the wilessss of the demon Crowley? How dreadful." Crowley whispered dramatically, then: "D'you reckon the apocalypse would've happened, if then?"

"Who's to say but Her? Best not to think of it, really."

Crowley looked up and their eyes met. The demon smiled a very undemonic soft smile, and the angel smiled back, just a smidge softer.

"I'm glad you're here, angel."

"So am I, Crowley. So am I."

Aziraphale felt warm. He had warmth like a hug without being wrapped in limbs. Warmth like a new summer breeze. Warmth like sunshine.

"Are you feeling much better, dear?"

"Very much, thank you," Crowley replied, voice cracking at the end.

Crowley feels like he could bask in Aziraphale's light forever. And so he did, nuzzling into the whole expanse of just Aziraphale, wrapping all limbs around the other until the angel is rendered immobile, and Aziraphale simply smiled, and hugged back.

"Stay?"

"Of course, you silly serpent."

Aziraphale felt like home.


End file.
